Tissues

[July 2010]

Part Four

Monday.

Day of the Event.

I take my time getting ready.  In fact, I take too long.
My siblings leave without me.

So I decide to take my time praying dhur, and then making a really long duaa right after.  I'm asking Allah to fix this nothing that's bothering me so much. I can't really take this emotional rollercoaster and this constant crying.

Mum walks into to my room, and asks me why I'm crying.
"You think I haven't noticed you crying this past couple of days?  You think I don't notice how you've managed to use up a whole tissue box in a matter of days?"

She's trying to get to me.  She trying her hardest to understand me.  But how can I explain when I don't even understand myself?

"I was crying in duaa.  I only cry in Duaa." True.  Almost always true. Because I've finally realised that my tear have to be productive tears, and the best way to do that is to make Duaa.

She doesn't believe me.  "You think I'm stupid?  Just like your Auntie, eh?  She thinks I'm stupid too, always lecturing me! Tell me the truth."  Evidently, there's a lot of inter familial jagraa (fighting) going on recently. Too much.  It's gotten to the point where my parents are seriously considering moving away somewhere (Middle East, India, or even North, since they both love it there) and they're regretting having ever sponsored family to come live in Canada.

As our conversation stretches out without me having conceded any information, she grows frustrated with me.

And then suddenly, I've made my mother cry.  This woman, who is such a strong, brave and intelligent person - a true warrior, really.  And I've made her cry.  How could I?

As she storms off, she tells me that I'm eating myself away with all this grief and sadness and she can't stand to see me unhappy.

I don't know what to do.

I don't know what to do.

So I sit there.

And then I make duaa.

And wash my face and get ready.

I head downstairs, reciting dhikr and hoping that it will give me some strength.
I apologize, and she envelopes me in a hug.  "What is it?" she asks, one last time.  And I answer with silence, and then slowly, I tell her that I'm not really sure, but I know that  I'm not myself.

She has her theories.
A) It's my siblings and their lack of consideration.
B) It's this rishta stuff.

Maybe.  Maybe not.